


as in a house

by heartslogos



Category: Gideon the Ninth
Genre: Canonical Character Death, F/F, Spoilers, do not copy to another site
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2019-09-21
Packaged: 2020-10-21 15:10:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20695568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartslogos/pseuds/heartslogos
Summary: If I die, survive me with such a pure force/ you make the pallor and the coldness rage- Pablo Neruda Sonnet XCIV-Harrowhark’s field of study and devotion has never been the calling and managing of spirits. Her realm has been and always will be, primarily, bone. The subtle work of calling and bidding a spirit to come and speak was better left to other houses, and other necromancers with lesser goals and ambitions than hers.Thankfully, Gideon Nav is not subtle.-the one where Harrowhark works through the stages of grief and pointedly does not come to their normal conclusion





	as in a house

For the lack of anything better to do whilst recovering and waiting for transport to — wherever it is Lyctors learn to be Lyctors — Harrow finds herself attempting to acclimatize herself to her newfound breadth of knowledge in the realm of the physical arts of combat.

She has procured herself a two hander.

“This is ridiculous,” Harrowhark snarls under her breath as she swings the two handed sword around experimentally. Griddle could do this with one hand whilst running about and running her mouth. Harrow is coming to a newfound appreciation for Griddle’s previously under appreciated lung capacity.

The rapier and knuckle would be easier.

But Harrow remembers what it was like to have Griddle’s confident hands on a two hander.

Perhaps one of the greatest injustices the universe will ever not-know is what it lost when Harrowhark removed Gideon Nav from the possible pool of foot soldiers in the Necrolord Prime’s armies.

With her heavy sword Griddle would have carved bodies down like she was cutting paper. She would have won their house enough tithes and bounties to restore it to monetary glory single handedly within a decade. Griddle could probably have generated so much thanergy with just her two handed sword that she would have given a dozen necromancers worth Harrow’s pinky toe enough power that they could probably amount to something worth Harrow’s attention.

Aiglamene was right.

Given time, if Griddle had been trained as a cavalier from the start, she could have been the second coming of Matthias Nonius.

Hells, Griddle _was_ the second coming of Matthias Nonius, and she would have come around so proficiently she would have made Nonius look like he was the one who followed after _her_.

Even with a rapier and knuckle Griddle was terrifyingly good. Harrow felt that first hand.

But Griddle was — _is_ — truly in her wheelhouse with a two hander. As Griddle would say, a swordsman’s sword.

Harrowhark doesn’t regret for a second her choice to keep Gideon, to chain her to the Ninth, to herself and browbeat her into faking tradition. But oh, she would have _loved_ to see the faces of the other necromancers and their cavaliers if they would get themselves put in their place by Gideon Nav and her soldier’s sword.

A lifetime of living in a world with Gideon Nav as her sole age group companion and object of her attentions means that Harrow is well aware of the various exercises Gideon has gone through daily in order to make herself physically fit enough to make swinging around this stick of metal look simple.

Harrowhark is not going to achieve that physical fitness in a day, a month, or even a year. But the sooner she starts the sooner she will get there. Still.

The rapier is a tempting option, especially when her arms tremble with strain after only a few swings of the sword.

_Come on, bone jangles, you’re basically a walking catacomb. It’s just a sword. _Harrow imagines the way Gideon would wave her arm, gesturing to all of Harrow at once, face pulled into incredulousness. She can almost feel the weight of Gideon’s eyes on her back, laughing at her and judging her shaking arms, her paint-streaked face, and her unsteady footing.

Harrow bites her lip, frustration and sweat building on her brow as she raises the sword once more.

“A few knuckle bones and the occasional metatarsal in the pocket are nothing compared to swinging around a long stick made of metal, Griddle,” Harrow sneers.

She lowers the sword, willing herself to focus and calm and find the quiet center of herself. The center that is capable of creating perpetual bone, regenerating constructs, and wards that could strip skin so finely it looks transparent.

She can’t.

Gideon Nav’s eyes, burning and spiteful and glorious like a star’s death beam out at her from the shadows of her mind.

“I hate you,” Harrow’s voice rasps, “_I hate you_.”

_Sure you do,_ Gideon, but not Gideon, says. _But not as much as you’re going to hate doing laps with weights. It’s cardio day, babey. Can’t skip the cardio._

_“_Just you wait until I get my hands on you, Griddle. Making me do manual labor as though I were some sort of unnamed fodder in the lowest squadrons.” Harrowhark snarls under her breath, “You do not _die_ on me, Gideon Nav. Not without my leave. Not after making me complete an oath to you.”

The voice of Gideon Nav in her head is not Gideon, it is, as that final battle was, a collection of memories. Years of fighting, existing, and generally living out of each other’s pockets. Harrow’s mind can create the illusion of Gideon Nav so perfectly that it makes Harrow instinctively clench her jaw.

The only thing Harrow could not imagine of Gideon Nav, Cavalier Primary of the Ninth House, was the cry that left her lips as she threw herself onto the irons.

For the Ninth.

What _garbage_. As if Griddle ever cared about the Ninth.

_For Nonagesimus,_ Harrow’s conjured Gideon translates, mouth too soft to be anything but imagined, _For Harrowhark, my dark lady of eternal night and crushed velvet and dreary gloom —_

“No one,” Harrow says quietly as she focuses on the sword in front of her through the blur of the stinging wet in her eyes, “_No one. Asked you._”

-

Harrowhark’s field of study and devotion has never been the calling and managing of spirits. Her realm has been and always will be, primarily, bone. The subtle work of calling and bidding a spirit to come and speak was better left to other houses, and other necromancers with lesser goals and ambitions than hers.

Thankfully, Gideon Nav is not subtle.

Gideon Nav wouldn’t know subtlety if it crammed itself down her throat. That Gideon held to Harrow’s orders to keep her mouth shut for so long was nothing short of a miracle.

Therefore, Harrowhark’s failure to conjure her back where she belongs is glaringly obvious, glaringly disappointing, and woefully terrible.

“Gideon Nav, the head of the Ninth House, Keeper of the Locked Tomb, Reverend Daughter commands you to show yourself.”

In theory Harrow would be working with Gideon’s bones, her corpse, her blood, her _anything._ Anything existing of hers that would have physically tied her to this existence. But the search of the House of Canaan continues to be fruitless.

At this point Harrow would settle with those antiquated mirrored glasses Gideon pulled out of who knows where.

It should be easy. She is a Lyctor. Gideon resides within her. Gideon’s _soul_ resides within her. It should be nothing to call Gideon forward, to make her speak, to force her to listen. This should be the easiest thing in the world without need for personal affects. Gideon is _here_. _One flesh._

She had seen Ianthe post ascension. Naberius Tern was inside of her, somewhere. The two of them where both distinctly present. Though, considering how that went and what Cytherea had said to her, it can be surmised that Ianthe’s ascension into Lyctor-dom was not yet completed. Prince Tern resisted sublimation into Ianthe, held out against assimilation and consumption. Naberies Tern was, most likely, not meant to be so visibly and noticeably _present_.

This is, perhaps, the first time since Harrowhark was born that she wished she was not as powerful and capable as she is. It would be a gift to have reached imperfection as Ianthe did. Harrow would kill to remain there, in that moment, with Gideon’s arms over hers.

Harrow closes her eyes and imagines those dark coppery curls, sweat damp and matted with ash and crumbling stone that rest over Gideon’s brow. She calls forward the crooked grin, the wan and cracked lips, and the smudged paints, streaked by sweat and blood and dust.

She reaches deep within her, feeling the curl of Gideon’s muscles as though they were her own, the world through Gideon Nav’s eyes, and the exhilarating rush of seeing in real time the prodigal skill behind each parry, sword thrust, and weathering block.

“Cavalier, your adept calls you,” Harrow says, willing the feeling of Gideon’s mind against hers. Wiling the torturous pound of Gideon’s heart next to hers, a disconcerting off-tempo rhythm that screamed for her attention even as she tried to focus on the thousands of other things that ran through Gideon’s mind. “Cavalier, your necromancer _calls you_.”

Nothing but terrible, familiar, and utterly predictable silence.

Nothing with Gideon Nav has ever been as it should.

“Damn you, Griddle,” Harrow snarls, eyes flying open as she searches out a mirror, “Why do you have to be so bloody difficult? What do I have to _do_?”

Gideon’s voice — a memory, not actually _her_ — fills the back of Harrow’s throat.

_“…because you asked.” _The memory of her own heart lifting up so high it should have frozen and withered in the atmosphere. “_That’s all I ever demanded, you asswipe_.”

“Griddle,” Harrow’s voice comes out cracked and wretched, hopeful. Let it be this simple. Let it be Gideon being an impertinent ass. Let it be just this. “Please. Gideon, will you come back?”

Pathetically, Harrow holds her breath, every part of her winding up with anticipation.

If Gideon really were here, the silence would be mocking.

Gideon is not here. Gideon is not anywhere.

The silence is simply silence.

-

Gideon’s skin, underneath the familiar paint of the Ninth, was beginning to turn golden. Years of shadow and ash gray existence at the Ninth was beginning to wash away under the irritating bloom of the sun. It suited her.

Harrow can still feel the sureness of Gideon’s palms, square and rough and strong. The curl of Gideon’s fingers. The solid steadiness of Gideon’s chest and shoulders. The certainty of her thighs.

She can feel herself in Gideon’s bones. She can remember feeling Gideon in hers.

Did she imagine it?

Harrow catches glimpses of herself in windows into the vast black void of space, in the reflective surface of the sword she grinds her teeth at practicing with, in the dull metal of cups and cutlery.

She does not know if the amber she sometimes catches snatches of are real or not. Cause for hope or reason for worry of delusion.

She thinks she wants it too badly. Too much.

It’s only been a few scant days, weeks, since Canaan House’s fall. A few weeks since Gideon’s.

It feels like years. And Gideon, functionally, has _eternity_ with this ache, this fear, this longing.

How long until Harrow forgets the sound of Gideon’s voice? The sweat of her palms? The rough timber of her voice when she pretends to talk softly? How long until Harrow no longer feels Gideon’s eyes on her back, the steady thrum of her heartbeat?

How long does Harrow have to last until it stops oozing like an infection inside of her?

What does she have to do to divest herself of everything Gideon Nav? What, exactly, does she have to do to stop the vast, ever widening hole that seems to be eating away at the insides of her bones?

Whatever it is, she could probably do it. She can probably do a lot of things with her newfound power.

It is a concentrated effort for her not to imagine Gideon’s responses. The temptation to allow herself to indulge in memory-prediction simulations of Gideon is nearly overpowering. The desire to cut herself open on not-Gideon digs at her throat like teeth.

Somewhere inside of her Gideon’s soul hides, a perpetual thanergic battery, stripped of consciousness and voice.

One flesh, one end, Harrow repeats to herself in her head like a prayer. If she had a string of bones she would have gone all the way around a dozen times by now. If she were reciting prayers to the Necrolord Prime she would have out-prayed even the most reverent of acolytes and priests. One flesh, one end.

Her entire life has been built around the survival of her house. Her entire life she’s lived with the burden of death on her shoulders and the ever looming knowledge that she is all that stands between her house’s prestigious lineage and the annuls of antiquity.

She would end it all here and now if it meant achieving that one, perfect end.

But she can’t. Harrowhark doesn’t know how. Harrow is incapable of it.

Harrow has been charged with the Necrolord to learn, to grow, and to stand by his side in this war. Harrow carries Gideon’s last physical words _for the Ninth_ in her. Harrow carries duty, tradition, and responsibility that despite the fact she would rather say _to hell with it_, she is incapable of putting aside. Even if it’s going to drain her of everything she is.

Gideon Nav lied when she said she only knew one thing.

She knew two.

Gideon Nav knew Harrowhark Nonagesimus.

She was the only one.

For the first time in Harrow’s entire life, she is completely and utterly alone.

It is not nearly as pleasant as she imagined it would be.

_-_

Frankly speaking Harrow could care less about being a Lyctor. The Seventh was right in abstaining from that trial. He was right to do as he did. Ultimately, she thinks he may have gotten the upper hand on her and gotten the better end of things.

No necromancer should outlive their cavalier.

_One flesh, one end_.

Every time Harrow closes her eyes she can see the bloom of blood, the stain of it as spikes speared through Gideon’s body. Like a grotesque bouquet.

She bites through her cheek until she tastes her own blood.

What’s one more death, Griddle? It’s _too much_, that’s what it is.

“I didn’t ask for this,” Harrow snarls, glaring at the sword sitting at the end of her bed. Her hands are sore. She has blisters. Her entire body aches.

“I didn’t ask for _you_.”

The sword isn’t even Griddle’s. Her body hasn’t turned up. Her knuckles, her rapier, her two hander, not even the iron she threw herself on.

How hard can it be to find her? She’s got a shock of copper red hair that looks like a rat nested in it, even when it was matted with blood and filth.

In Harrow’s mind there would be neon signs pointing to Gideon’s remains. She was at the damned epicenter of everything. She always is. Just find the biggest mess in Canaan house and there she’ll be.

Harrowhark the First.

Harrow would trade this, the universe, the entire Ninth for _Gideon Nav._ Damn being a the Necrolord Prime’s Hand. Damn sainthood. Damn the Empire. Damn them all. Damn every expectation, every sacrifice, every duty, every lesson ingrained into her since conception. Damn this war.

Damn Griddle for suddenly doing an about face and being selfless. Damn her for never listening to a word of reason. Damn her for actually putting the Ninth ahead of herself. Damn her for saying the cavalier’s oath and getting Harrow to repeat it back. Damn her for being stupid and heroic. Damn her for assuming that she knows what’s best for Harrow. Damn her for assuming she was saving Harrow’s life. Damn her for not understanding that Harrow’s life has always been forfeit to something else. Damn her.

Damn _Gideon the Ninth, who had the gall to ignore Harrow’s orders and off herself right in front of her._

Damn Harrow for not seeing the obvious and knowing Griddle would have done that. Because Griddle could never damn well do as she was told, even when what she was told was the most logical thing. If Harrow ever told Gideon Nav that breathing oxygen was good for her, she is certain that Gideon would have figured out a way to start retaining carbon dioxide with every breath instead, leading to her ultimate demise due to the final and predictable surrender of her last remaining brain cell.

Harrow closes her eyes, sees the wrong shade of red, and opens them again.

Her jaw hurts from the long scream that has yet to leave her bones.

It is nothing so dramatic as Gideon Nav’s name. It is more something along the lines of a wordless, indecipherable yowl that simultaneously encompasses every single moment of absolute frustration and hatred Harrow has ever felt towards Gideon combined with the profound and shocking agony that Gideon’s absence has punched straight into Harrow’s gut.

_“_Why won’t you answer me, Griddle? I know you rarely have something clever to say back, but now is the time for banalities if there ever was one,” Harrow says to empty, recycled air. The hum of the ship’s life support systems provides no answers. “Honestly. Of all the times for you to keep your mouth shut, it has to be _now_?”

She is more than aware of the fact that she is talking to herself, and only herself.

Harrow lashes out, picking the sword up and throwing it down onto the ground with a loud clatter. It’s not even Griddle’s sword, she doesn’t know why she’s so angry at it. But she is. This sword is everything that isn’t Gideon the Ninth and everything that is Harrowhawk the First. Lyctor. Hand of the Necrolord Prime.

Garbage, drivel, useless waste.

“What’s the blasted point of it all if you aren’t here?” Harrow demands. “You were to keep the Ninth. You were going to — you were going to lead armies. You were to be _my one end_.”

Of all the times for Griddle to be so stupidly selfless.

“I half suspect you did this to spite me,” Harrow sneers. “You haven’t won one over me, yet, Gideon. I am going to find you. I am going to make you scream. I am going to make you beg forgiveness. _You do not die without my permission, Gideon Nav._”

Her voice cracks, like a heart, like a house, like the stone that must never be moved.

“You do not get leave to leave me so easily.”

-

Harrowhark is the sum of two hundred and one souls, and the culmination of an entire planet’s worth of desperation.

She is in the queendom of her power.

Fuck god.

As usual, if Harrowhark Nononagesimus needs something done, she’ll do it herself.


End file.
